


Of Sea Hags and Brigands

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Look I just need so much happiness for these three ok, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23150596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: The mighty Jarl of Skellige goes monster hunting. He finds far more than he bargained for.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	Of Sea Hags and Brigands

**Author's Note:**

> Technically set in the same reality as the series "A Summer in Cintra", but it's a few summers later. You don't have to read that series to read this; it's just a little FYI.
> 
> Also, in case you haven't read that series, I feel the need to add this little explanation: idk why but for me, Eist's POV/voice always says "ass", versus Calanthe's "arse". It's not "oh, look, you forgot to choose one or the other". It's literally "oh, look, your brain is broken and absolutely cannot let them both have the same internal spelling because your stupid ass brain is dead set on them having slightly different pronunciations for it." Even though it bothers me to have two different spellings within the same story, it literally just GNAWS at me to have the same spelling instead. So...I'm sorry, this is how my brain is and I can't reformat it.

She looks over at her second-in-command, sees the same fear in his eyes that she feels beating in her heart. Eist Tuirseach is a good man; there’s no one else she’d trust with her life more.

Still, she knows how dangerous their mission is. And he does, too.

“Alright,” he keeps his voice low, eyes darting, wary of an incoming attack. “It’s just you and me. We can do this.”

She nods, too overcome to respond verbally. Too many loyal warriors have been lost, but she knows they can't back down now. Her nation depends on it. Her heart is pounding so loudly that her ears actually feel like they’re beating.

“You will be the distraction,” he repeats the plan they’d made, on the journey across this cursed island. “Draw out the sea monster, give me a chance to strike. If things go badly, my queen, I want you to flee for your life and never look back, understood?”

Again, she nods. They both take a deep breath.

“Right,” he gives a curt nod. Then he intones, “For the glory of Skellige.”

“For the glory of Skellige,” she repeats, voice barely a whisper. They creep to their feet again and slip down the dark passageway, which leads to the monster’s lair.

They get closer. They can hear it, shuffling about.

She steps out, taking a deep breath.

It spots her. Moves forward, its intent unmistakable.

She skitters ahead, just far enough to stay out of reach.

The monster calls out, follows after her. She runs faster, until she hits the end of the tunnel, turns back to see the monster, half-hidden in shadow.

Then, thank the gods, Eist launches into action.

* * *

“Eist Tuirseach!” Calanthe immediately regrets the high pitch of her tone, sounding far too girlish. Her husband’s arm is firmly around her waist, swinging her off her feet. She nearly pitches hands-first onto the ground as she attempts to find balance. Eist’s arm tightens and hauls her further up, keeping her doubled over, arms and legs spindling out in all directions in an attempt to free herself.

“Victory!” Eist crows, pumping his other fist skyward. “Glory to Skellige!”

Calanthe is still writhing, only half-hearted in her attempts to kick him in the back of his knee. After all, she’d rather not be dropped on the stone floor. She's still flustered by the sudden commotion. Just moments ago, she was deeply invested in reading an accounting scroll. Now she's snatched up and tossed about like a ragdoll, her husband and granddaughter yelling loudly enough to wake the dead. 

“Glory to Skellige!” Ciri echoes from the end of the corridor, racing back to them. Her eyes are dancing delightedly. “The sea hag has been defeated!”

“The _what_?” The indignation in Calanthe’s tone is unmistakable.

“Monster,” Eist corrects his granddaughter, studiously ignoring the look of the woman he’s currently holding on the side of his hip like a large and rather unhappy sack of potatoes. “Sea _monster_.”

Calanthe uses the full length of one arm to smack across his torso.

“Surely that’s better than hag,” he points out.

“Surely your head would be better on a pike,” she retorts. She may actually be angry right now, he realizes. Best to hang onto her, to mitigate the amount of damage she can do. (Not for any other reason, of course, not because it pisses her off to no end and he finds a giddy, childish delight in teasing her like this.)

“It’s just a game,” Cirilla informs her, still beaming happily. She leans forward to cup Calanthe’s reddened face in her hands, placing a small kiss on her forehead. “We’re hunting monsters. For the glory of Skellige.”

“Glory of Skellinge, my arse,” she snipes back, though with far less venom than before.

“The glory of Skellige will _have_ your ass,” her husband mutters in a low tone. This earns him another swat. Finally, he pities her enough to tilt her right-side-up, placing her feet back on the floor while letting his grip slip around to the ass in question, giving it a quick squeeze with both hands.

She elbows him. It isn’t even a tenth of her actual strength. More of an encouragement than a deterrent, to be honest.

“Now that we have captured you, mighty sea creature,” Ciri rises to her full height, chin barely coming to Calanthe’s stomach. “We will take you back to our castle, to show the world our feats.”

“Over my dead body,” Calanthe deadpans.

“That can be arranged,” Ciri returns without missing a beat.

Eist and Calanthe immediately burst into surprised laughter, loud and sharp.

“Five years old and already more daring than any pirate I’ve ever met,” Eist says proudly. Calanthe is still smiling warmly, her eyes shining down on her granddaughter.

Ciri’s cheeks hurt from grinning. She was merely playing her role in the game; she didn’t mean to make a joke. But she loves when she makes her grandparents laugh. They look at her like she’s the most brilliant thing they’ve ever seen, with so much love that it almost makes Ciri’s heart hurt, like a tummy ache from too much food.

Still, the game isn’t over. She steps forward imperiously, trying to mimic the voice she’s heard her grandmother use many times, “Come now, monster. We _will_ take you back to our castle.”

The monster merely sighs, shooting a dark glance at Ciri’s second-in-command. It should feel like an angry look, but somehow, Ciri always feels bubbly with happiness when she sees it. It’s like her grandmother’s version of a smile, but a special smile she only uses for her grandfather.

Cirilla leads the way. Calanthe gives a small exhale, as if she’s only going along with it to appease her granddaughter.

But Eist has never been one to let her get away with such pretense. He leans in, stopping her with a set of hands on her hips and pulling her back slightly so that he can whisper in her ear, “Don’t pretend as if you aren’t loving every moment of this.”

She shifts to look over her shoulder at him, one brow arching incredulously, as if absolutely dumbfounded by his audacity. In her queenliest tone, she drawls, “Scooped up by a brigand and forced to Skellige, of all places? I cannot imagine a darker hell.”

He chuckles softly, releasing her hips and giving her ass a quick pop. “Onward, sea hag.”

“I thought I was a monster.”

“I thought they were equally untenable.”

She hums, not particularly happy but unable to fully argue. Eist shifts further behind her, as if she’s truly a dangerous thing that needs to be watched at all times. However, the low noise from his throat informs her that danger isn’t the sensation currently spiking his blood.

“Hurry up!” Cirilla demands from further down the hall.

Calanthe picks up her pace. And perhaps adds just a little more sway to her hips than usual.

“All hail the wonder of Cintra,” her husband murmurs, intentionally loud enough for her to hear. She smirks. He once took the time to bestow titles upon all of his favorite places on her body, all with lofty and seemingly virtuous epithets—her arse is the wonder of Cintra, her thighs are the might, her breasts the glory, her lips the fire. He still uses these terms, particularly when they’re in public and he wants to make a risqué quip that only she understands.

Sometimes, at a feast or a tournament, someone will stand up and raise their stein, bellowing about the might and glory of Cintra. They, of course, are talking about idealistic qualities of a nation and its military power. However, Calanthe and Eist duck their chins and try not to giggle like feckless young boys, glancing at each other in an unspoken recognition of the inside joke. Eist will often arch a brow, silently condoning the unknowing toast to his wife’s virtues. He always echoes the cheer loudly, with full conviction, and it never fails to make her blush. Then he'll wink in her direction, bringing it back to just them, alone in a room full of people.

That’s part of what makes him different, what sets him apart. Calanthe has spent her life around soldiers, of course she’s used to lewd men. And she’s been around plenty of haughty nobles who love to make asides about their wives’ physical attributes, almost as if they’re somehow responsible for them, a humble brag upon something they possess. It’s always done with an outward intention, to point to a woman as if she’s a cow at the stock, being weighed and judged and merited, the subject of a joke yet always the object.

Eist’s jokes are for her alone. He doesn’t pretend ownership or brag to others. He simply appreciates what he sees and wants her to know it. To know, always, just how much he wants her—and somehow, she always knows that even when the compliments are physical, the fuel to his desire is emotional.

He loves her. Even more than he adores the wonder of Cintra.

She allows herself to smile at the thought. No one else can see—Eist is behind her and Cirilla is too busy marching her way back to her nursery.

"What's this?" She quirks a confused brow at the chaos in front of her. Dolls and stuffed animals are strewn down the corridor, lying hap-hazardously amid a few wooden swords.

"We lost many good men this day," Cirilla informs her seriously. "Your curse upon the island wrecked our boats and forced us to fight our way ashore."

"Perhaps you should have heeded the warning," Calanthe points out. Inwardly, she knows this was a momentary distraction on her husband's part. No doubt he has spent most of the morning playing with their granddaughter, and no doubt Ciri has spent a large portion of that begging to see her grandmother. Usually they just invade her private study, distracting her for a few minutes. But Ciri's leaving to visit Erlenwald soon, and she knows that Eist wants them to spend as much time together as possible.

Ciri swings open the door to her nursery, holding out her hands in a gesture of revelation. Calanthe's lungs nearly burst as she holds back a laugh, upon seeing the Skelligan castle. It’s a half-circle of chairs covered with bed sheets, some reaching out to a nearby table, weighted down by books. Underneath she can see that they’ve apparently rounded up every small pillow and hassock they could find.

“My, Skellige has improved vastly since last I visited,” she breathes with feigned wonder. She can literally feel her husband’s reaction, the way he looms slightly behind her, taut from holding back a retort of some sort. She feels a smug measure of pride at his restraint. Still, she looks over her shoulder, giving one slow, burning arch of her brow: _The sea hag can play this game too, see?_

He huffs out a sound of amusement, ducking and shaking his head. He’ll pay for this for a long time, he knows.

Ciri guides her grandmother into the makeshift tent, and soon they’re all huddled together underneath—though Eist is perhaps far closer than necessary, his right hand planted just behind Calanthe, so that his arm presses lightly up her spine. She leans back slightly, letting his shoulder become a head rest. He’s more comfortable than her own throne, she thinks. She smirks at the thought of simply sitting on him during the next formal court affair.

The blanket tent has a four-foot candelabra in the center, vaulting the roof. Ciri is able to stand comfortably, her grandparents’ seated position ensuring that she’s now looking down at Grandmother and practically level with Grandfather’s eyes.

“Now, sea monster,” she ducks her chin just a little, making sure the creature can truly look into her eyes. “I have a proposition for you.”

The sea monster blinks, surprised by this. In a low tone, it rasps, “A proposition, oh?”

“Yes,” Ciri nods. “You see, I rule all the seas in the world. And there are many scary monsters in the sea.”

“Indeed,” the monster agrees. “Many ugly ones that sail upon it, too.”

Ciri’s second-in-command gives a slight nudge of his shoulder, pushing the monster forward slightly. The monster merely grins.

“I have to keep my people safe,” Ciri informs her. “And I cannot do it alone. I humbly ask, dear creature, if you will be _my_ monster. To help keep my kingdom safe.”

The monster blinks again, many times in a row, suddenly very serious. Then, she agrees with a small tilt of her head, “I shall be your monster, dear queen. I shall protect you more fiercely than all the world.”

Grandmother’s eyes are shiny. She’s trying to smile but her mouth’s gone all wobbly. Cirilla steps forward with a nod, letting her fingertips trace the side of her grandmother’s face.

Grandfather has noticed, too. Ciri can hear the steady, reassuring sound of his hand, making circles on the small of Grandmother’s back. Ciri feels a measure of relief. He always knows just what to do, just how to make Grandmother happy again.

The sea monster smiles again, looking far too pretty to be any sort of a monster at all.

“It shall be an honor,” she adds.

Ciri nods again and bestows a kiss on the monster’s forehead. Then she turns her attention to her second-in-command, “Great Jarl, I thank you for your service.”

The Jarl’s mouth quirks at the corner, as if he’s trying not to laugh. However, he bows as he places his left hand over his chest. “I consider it the greatest honor to have served you, my goodly queen.”

“I grant you leave to return home,” Ciri decrees magnanimously.

“I thank you deeply.” He turns to the sea monster as he says, “I have a wife to return to. The most beautiful thing the world has ever seen. A paragon among women, a monument among kings.”

The sea monster blushes.

Ciri’s cheeks hurt from smiling so much. She launches herself into a hug with her grandfather, before dismissing him from her throne room.

Calanthe and Eist exchange knowing smiles as Eist leaves the tent. Once the door to the nursery opens and closes, Ciri turns back to Calanthe with a serious air.

“Now, my monster, we must begin our work.”

Calanthe fights back another smile. It’s not the first time she’s been called a monster, but it’s probably the first time she’s actually enjoyed it. “As you wish, my queen.”

For the next few minutes, they seriously discuss the state of Cirilla’s Skellige, which has far more interesting problems than the actual one, Calanthe inwardly notes. She listens intently, waiting for Ciri to come to her own ideas about certain courses of action, feeling a measure of pride for how logical and practical her granddaughter already is, even at such a tender age.

It’s overwhelming, how adorable she is. Calanthe reaches out to take her wrists, gently trying to pull her closer, into her lap for a quick kiss and cuddle. Ciri squirms away. “I am a queen, Grandmother. I can’t go around letting people coddle me.”

There’s a light huffing sound and Calanthe realizes that Eist has never actually left the room. She leans over, gingerly raising one of the hanging bedsheets to see her husband in a chair by the door, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, arms crossed over his chest in an utterly relaxed pose, grinning unrepentantly.

“This is technically spying,” she points out. “As the queen’s monster, I should put you to death.”

He merely opens his arms in a gesture of defiant welcome. _Come and get me_.

Heavens help her, that smirk only sets her hips aflame. She arches a brow. _Oh, just you wait._

He laughs again, a nearly silent, huffing sound. Cirilla pokes her head around as well.

“This is a private matter!” She decrees, not really angry at all.

“Apologies, my queen,” he doesn’t change the rest of his posture, but still bows his head in deference. “It is just that I still feared for your safety. Sea creatures are known for their wiles. Quite a slippery lot, in my experience.”

His heart soars in victory at the way Calanthe ducks her head, blushing and trying to cover her laughter. Her dark eyes flick back to meet him, searing and playful.

A knock on the nursery door surprises them all.

“Enter,” Cirilla commands, with all the authority of a queen. Again Calanthe has to press her lips into a thin line to keep from laughing.

Cirilla’s nursemaid appears, making appropriate signs of deference to the actual queen and king. Then she extends her hand towards Cirilla and informs her that lunch is ready.

She must have had it brought to Pavetta and Duny’s chambers, Calanthe realizes. Pavetta hasn’t changed much, in motherhood or adulthood—she still sometimes spends entire days tucked away reading. Though currently she is working on embroidering some frock for Cirilla’s upcoming birthday.

Cirilla gives each grandparent a kiss, followed by a promise to return soon. Then she dutifully takes her nursemaid’s outstretched hand and skips along. The door closes and they’re left alone.

“Hope we didn’t take you away from anything too terribly important,” Eist speaks up, not insincere but also not particularly concerned. He knows that if she were handling something truly vital, he would have already been in the room with her. Most mornings she retreats to her private study to pour over various items and issues surrounding the kingdom and its functions.

“Rescued me, more like,” she admits with a wry quirk of her lips. “The lords of the north have sent their yearly accounting.”

She doesn’t have to read over every piece of documentation, but she does anyways. It isn’t that she doesn’t trust her advisors or her appointees to various roles within the monarchy—quite the contrary, she knows she’s chosen the very best and does her best to stay out of their way and let them do their jobs. But she also believes in being well-informed on every matter of state, no matter how minor it may seem. To the petty knight who may come to court, seeing that his queen can speak easily on his region's grain supply or current weather patterns can make all the difference in cementing loyalty.

She is mother to all of Cintra, after all. And a mother cares—but she cannot care if she does not know.

He merely hums in amusement, knowing full well how tedious those scrolls can be. Then, with a lift of his brows, he promises, “I’ll gladly kidnap you anytime, milady.”

“And drag me off to dreaded Skellige?” She teases, smile as sharp as a blade.

“Too late,” he rises to his feet, quickly closing the distance between them to practically dive back into the tent. She counters his movement, nearly toppling backwards, but his arm around her waist steadies her. “Have you forgotten? You’re already _in_ Skellige.”

He pulls her into a kiss, grinning at the way she happily hums into his mouth.

“Interesting, it lacks the usual smell of fish.” Her smirk shows just how pleased she is with the barb.

He gives a small growl at that, and she laughs softly, delighting in his irritation as usual. She lets her fingertips drag along the line of his jaw before slipping down to his neck, sliding further around to curl into his hair. She simply looks at him, eyes hooded and shining with quiet joy.

Then she turns her attention to his mouth, her features slowly shifting into that lazy, feline look. A lioness getting ready to pounce. In her most saccharine voice, she asks, “And tell me, dear husband, whose idea was it to make me a sea monster?”

“Well,” he shifts, intentionally pretending to hedge. This earns him a widening grin from his wife. “Ciri missed you, and I was trying to keep it within the realm of the game.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I missed you, too,” he widens his eyes with feigned sincerity. “My darling, beautiful wife whom I love so very much.”

She hums in amusement again before rasping in a dramatic whisper, “Sentiment doesn’t work on me, dear Jarl.”

“Yes, sea hags generally are immune to most—”

“Bite your tongue.” Her words are quick, but not sharp. She’s still grinning, negating her words entirely.

“I’d much rather you bite it for me.” He leans further in with a dashing grin. She laughs, easy and light, then pulls him in for a kiss. She doesn’t quite bite his tongue, but her teeth pull at his bottom lip when their mouths part again, her eyes staying locked onto his—a tease, an opening salvo, an invitation.

An invitation he gladly accepts. “May I rescue you from queenly tedium for a while longer?”

She considers, hand pressing over the front of his tunic as she admires the weave pattern. “I suppose I’m open to being rescued. Given the right savior.”

“A seafaring brigand?”

“He’ll have to do, I suppose.”

He grins and slides out of the tent, lifting the flap again and gallantly offering his hand to help her out as well. With her dress, it’s not as easy to maneuver, but she makes it to her feet.

He tightens his grip on her hand and pulls her closer. She makes a small, breathless sound, already feeling overwhelmed by the light in his ocean eyes.

Then, before she can react any further, he scoops her up and hauls her over his shoulder.

“Eist!” She lightly beats her hands against his lower back.

He gives her ass a smack in retaliation. With undeniable smugness, he taunts, “Told you that’d be claimed for the glory of Skellige.”

“Cintra refuses to be claimed for anyone’s glory but her own,” she returns.

“Oh, I plan on a mutually rewarding experience,” he assures her.

She huffs in feigned irritation as her chest fills with warmth. She loves him all the more for the way he stops and surveys the corridor before leaving the room, careful of her reputation even in moments of lightheartedness. Then, with absolute gentleness, he sets her back on her feet, once he’s made his point.

She retaliates by grabbing the lapels of his tunic and yanking him down into a kiss. He practically growls his approval against her tongue, spiking the heat in her veins.

“My study’s closer,” she informs him. Obviously, she means in relation to their bedchambers.

“That alcove at the end of the hall is closer still,” he tilts his head in its direction.

She gives a small sound of delight. “Well-spotted, brigand.”

“Anything for you, my queen,” he says with careless ease. She smirks over her shoulder as she leads the way, knowing full well that his motivation isn’t nearly as selfless as he’s making it seem.

He can’t help himself. He grabs her hips, halting her clipping pace (she’s practically bolting down the corridor and it makes him nearly giddy, knowing that she wants him just as deeply and desperately as he wants her) to pull her in again, just like he did before when she’d first been captured in their game. This time, he does what he could not with Ciri present. Nibbles at her ear, bites the side of her neck, tightens his grip on her hips when she shivers at the heat of his breath on her skin. She tilts her head, granting him more access, silently begging for more. Her body practically falls back against his own, heavy with want, her hand coming up to anchor in his hair, pulling and encouraging him.

They stay like that for a small eternity, both simply enjoying the feeling the other’s reaction inspires. The breath in Calanthe’s lungs makes a small, shuddering sound, and Eist realizes he may very well combust into flames just from the sound of her breathing. He takes a moment to press a hard, staying kiss against the side of her head as his hands slide up to grab her breasts, and she jerks forward with a small, needy noise when he tweaks her nipples, hands covering his own as her head sinks forward.

She merely whispers his name, harsh and insistent, and he understands the rest, quickly ushering her forward and into the alcove.

“I still plan to take you to task for the sea hag bit,” she informs him, only half-serious (but still half-very-serious). She’s busy gathering up her skirts, which lessens the threat of her words.

“Later,” he retorts.

She makes a small sound of agreement, already reaching for him again.

The glory of Skellige meets with the might of Cintra. And yet somehow, the engagement ends in victory for both sides.

The Jarl of Skellige would consider it his most successful monster hunt of all time.


End file.
